


Anniversaries

by cat_77



Category: Fringe
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were some things she did not feel the need to share with the others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anniversaries

**Author's Note:**

> For the "skeletons in the closet" square at hc_bingo.
> 
> * * *

A gentle knock on the doorframe signaled Peter's arrival. Olivia looked up from the files strewn across the desk and smiled in greeting, the action in direct contrast to the blood and gore and destruction beneath her fingertips. "Hey," she said, blinking to replace the images with the man before her.

"Hey yourself," Peter rejoined. His chin jutted towards the various casework and he asked, "You plan on being here all night?"

She glanced at the time on the screen if her laptop and hid a wince. It was already nearly half past eight and her usually precise memory reminded her of the promise of a shared dinner. "No," she replied. She placed her glasses on a clear section of the desktop and began to organize and shut down.

"I don't mean to interrupt your no doubt thrilling adventures in historic maimings and their current reenactments, but I have a vague recollection of it being the anniversary of a certain someone's birth and the mention of a celebration there of?" The words were said kindly, with an understanding of how she had lost track of time and clear indication that no harm nor foul was perceived, at least for now.

She shuffled several photos and the old, non-digitized case notes into their file folders before locking them safely away. "Sorry," she said, even though she knew he would insist it wasn't necessary. Even though she knew she had kept more than a single person waiting. Hopefully there were no reservations at play, or at least the restaurant was forgiving of guaranteed patrons.

As expected, Peter waved her off. "Don't worry about it. I understand the draw of outdated decaying remains, but Walter has a jonesing for some linguini."

From behind him came a call from the man in question, who insisted, "Leo's linguini is the best. So is his cake. You did say there'd be cake right?" Quieter now, almost enough so that she had to strain to hear it, she made out, "It's just not a birthday without cake..." and Astrid readily agreeing.

The four of them made it to the restaurant and she discovered Peter had planned for the delay - though whether he had planned for hers or his father's was up for debate - and that they were only about ten minutes late, a forgivable delinquency as far as Leo and staff were concerned.

She also discovered that the linguini really was fantastic, as was the chianti and the incredibly rich chocolate cake that followed. She ate, she drank, she shared stories and she laughed and she found it really was a far better night than one spent bent over dusty archives chasing a possibly literal ghost. She felt herself relax little by little, shoulders losing their strain and that tiny inkling of a headache disappearing completely. She accepted her presents with a smile, even though she wasn't sure if she could fully identify what Walter had given her and was fairly certain the parts she could understand may just be illegal in several of the local counties.

Later, she took a cab home and let Peter walk her up to her apartment. He leaned against the door jamb but made no move to invite himself in, a mirror of his earlier behavior. "Happy birthday, Liv," he told her while she debated if that last glass was one too many.

"Thank you," she told him, and found that she meant it.

He cleared his throat which meant that, yes, he was going to mention it and risk ruining an otherwise pleasant evening. "I know some in the past have been less than happy, so we were sort of determined to try to turn that around," he explained.

"We?" she asked, voice carefully modulated to show none of the emotion that threatened to escape. "The Bishop Boys had a plan?"

"Astrid too!" he insisted, but chuckled at being caught out. Serious again, or as serious as he could be stuffed with pasta and wine, he asked, "No word?"

She made a show of looking around and even held up the few cards that had come in that day's mail. "Not a one," she replied. "Hasn't been for two years now."

He smiled, wide and bright. "Good. I'm glad that he's leaving you alone, if he's even out there any more."

"As am I," she said, and hoped he thought it was the chianti and not her forcing a smile.

They said their goodbyes and she locked the door behind him before tucking her presents and keys off to the side. She then kicked off her shoes and hung her jacket over the back of a chair to deal with come morning. She didn't bother stripping down for bed just as she didn't bother actually heading towards the welcoming refuge of pillows and blankets.

Instead, she went to her closet and pulled out the little jewelry box from the back corner of the shelf. From that, she pulled out the simple gold locket and let it dangle and spin and catch the light for a moment before she caught it and ran her thumb over the slight design on the front.

She slid open the catch and flipped it open, the hinge too damaged and too old to flop completely backwards. On one side, was a picture of Rachel and herself, blonde hair tangled together as they leaned into each other in some rough semblance of a hug. On the other, engraved in a shaky hand, were the words, "My girls."

She closed her eyes against the memory of the gold resting in the hollow of her mother's throat, against the comparison of the engraving rubbed along her tiny fingers then and that of her much larger ones now. Her free hand drifted to the chain and the hastily repaired clasp, feeling exactly where it snapped when her stepfather had ripped it away.

She opened her eyes then, and did not fight the way her lips flitted upwards at a different memory all together. The memory of taking back what was rightfully hers. The memory of skinned knuckles and a familiar weight of her weapon in her hands. The memory of the man who had haunted her dreams for far too long laying still and unmoving at her feet.

She hadn't lied to Peter; her stepfather had not sent her anything for two years now.

She also wasn't lying when she said she really didn't think he would be bothering her anytime soon. 

She fastened the chain around her neck and readied herself for bed, the weight of the metal familiar and comforting. She would remove it come morning but, for at least tonight, her family would be there with her, in one way or another.

 

End.


End file.
